Two of Swords

by Orangeblossom Took
Part One

Minas Tirith, summer 2999

It was a bright summer morning when Faramir woke up with the flushed
complexion and warm forehead of a fever. His stomach felt like he had
swallowed frozen rocks. The sixteen-year-old had seldom been sick in
his life and this was the worst he could remember feeling.

Despite this, the sight of the sunlight pouring in his bedroom window
filled him with dread. His father expected him to be up and at the
practice field with his arms master before the sun had risen fully over
the eastern horizon. He knew he would pay for his tardiness. He was
usually scrupulously punctual and knew this was not a good time to
anger his father, who had been acting strangely and spending a great
deal of time in a locked room in the tower.

He managed to get dressed quickly, although the effort made him
slightly dizzy and did nothing to ease the turmoil in his stomach. He
got his sword and walked swiftly to the practice field. Master Charis
was there waiting for him and contentedly humming a tune as he polished
his sword.

He looked up when Faramir approached and, in a teasing tone, said, “You
are late, lad. Were you up all night chasing girls with Lord Boromir?”

Faramir smiled weakly and said, “No, Master Charis. Boromir spent the
evening meeting with father and his councilors. I went to bed shortly
after dinner and am afraid I simply overslept.”

Charis looked at his pupil with an assessing eye and concern deepened
the lines on his friendly but weathered face. “Overslept, nothing,” he
said, “Your color is not good, young lord, and you are carrying
yourself stiffly. Come here.”

Faramir obeyed this directive and allowed Charis to put a hand on his
forehead. The arms master exclaimed, “You are burning up! You should go
back to bed and I will send for a healer.”

Before Charis could do this, they were interrupted by the sight of
Denethor approaching them. His long cloak billowed about him like the
wings of a blackbird and the scowl on his fact could have darkened the
brightest day.

In a voice tight with barely suppressed rage, the Steward said, “You may leave, Charis.”

Surprised and alarmed by the look on Denethor’s face, Charis forgot himself and said, “But, my Lord…”

Denethor roared, “You dare to contradict me! You will speak only to
answer a question from me! Now, give me your sword and leave! I will
teach this lesson.”

Faramir watched Charis leave with some consternation but did his best
to keep his expression neutral and his posture straight. He had never
seen his father this angry since he was a child and his mother was
dying. He had been sent to foster in Dol Amoth immediately after her
death and had been back in Minas Tirith for less than a year. His
relationship with his father had been frigid but Denethor had not been
physically violent to him since his return.

Faramir dutifully unsheathed the weapon. He could never understand what
it was about him that his father hated so much. He could, with
difficulty, recall a time in his earliest memories, before his mother
died, when it had been different. He had been a tiny child, what could
he have possibly done?

The Steward snapped, “Be on your guard, boy!”

Denethor was aggressively on the offensive. Faramir, with great effort,
blocked his father’s blade. This became progressively more difficult
and Denethor fought with words as cold and sharp as the steel he
wielded.

Denethor sneered, “Faramir, you are weak and disobedient! I shudder to
think that, if anything happens to Boromir, you will be Steward.”
Faramir did not say anything in response to this and Denethor
continued, “Finduilas indulged you far too much and then sent you to
that pompous brother of hers who continued to coddle you.”

The heat of the sun, his churning stomach, the physical exertion, and
his father’s words were taking their toll on Faramir and he was having
more difficulty in keeping Denethor at bay. The summer sky whirled
above his head in a spiral of infinite blue. He failed to check his
father’s next attack and received a deep slash to his arm. The blue
turned black at the edges and tunneled in as he dropped to the ground.
The last thing he heard was someone shouting, “Father! No!” Had Charis
summoned Boromir to his aid?

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